


The Things I Should Have Said (But Didn't)

by Crimson_Voltaire



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Minor Character Death, Off-screen Character Death, Victim Blaming (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 18:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10814046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: "There's nothing I can do to convince you to stay?"Graves is glaring at her from the doorway of his brownstone."No."---Sequel/Companion to Looking for Lost Time - Seraphina goes looking for Graves, asking him to reconsider. I'd advise reading LFLT first before you read this, but it can be read as a standalone





	The Things I Should Have Said (But Didn't)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written because someone asked if Graves ever gets hugged. Yes, he does. It probably doesn't make him feel any better, but he gets hugged. 
> 
> As per usual, this is unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own. Constructive criticism is welcome. Enjoy! 
> 
> (Note: I rewatched FBAWTFT, and in two different scenes, the President's name is spelled both "Pickery" and "Picquery". I continue to use the former, because that is what I originally wrote)

The Graves' Irish Manor is little more than an ancient hunting lodge in a windswept meadow, half lost in the green hills and sheer grey cliffs.

It looks like something from a fairy story, white with black-brown half-timbering ensnared in creeping vines, a snapshot of another time.

The wind is bitterly cold, whipping around Seraphina and biting at her exposed cheeks. She pulls her collar tighter about her throat, burying her face in it's finery.

It isn't raining but the clouds still blanket the sky, heavy and grumpy and threatening to burst. Seraphina ignores their rumblings, continuing her measured pace up the gravel path. Her sensible pumps click on small stones, sending some scattering before her.

She's still in a state of mild shock. The wards at the edge of the massive property let her through without quarrel, merely melting about her and reforming when she'd passed. It felt a bit like walking through syrup, the magic clinging to her for a second, investigating but then disappearing, only to re-emerge behind her back.

Pickery has never been here before, hadn't even known this manor existed until about half a year ago, so she doesn't see any reason for the magic to let her through. Intention wards, perhaps, but she can't be sure.  
Whatever they are, they're old, far older than the Estate's current inhabitant. They're probably deeply entrenched in the _Old Ways_ , a wilder and more mysterious (Powerful) sort of magic than most modern folk are used to dealing with.

So caught up in her theory, Seraphina is almost startled when the door to the cottage swings open, a figure appearing in the entryway.

He's so different now, from what he was six months ago. Gone is the heavy overcoat with the wide shoulders and the sweeping collar and the edges so sharp they could cut. Gone is the deep furrow of his brow and permanent wrinkles in his forehead. There's more silver in his hair now than there was in January, and he's wearing black rimmed reading glasses.

But it is still, undeniably, Graves. He leans against the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest. Dressed in comfortable, close tailored blue pants and a soft cashmere jumper, hair unstyled, he looks more like a no-maj professor than an (ex) Auror.

"You're a long way from home," Graves says, voice distant and edging on amused.

A hint of a smile is tickling his lips. Seraphina raises her brow, schooling her own features so they don't betray her joy at hearing his voice again.

"I came to speak with you. You look good."

He does, really. Memory supplies images of a man whose skin was wan and drawn too tightly over cheekbones. When she thinks about January, Seraphina remembers a walking ghost; she thinks of a man with haunted eyes and enough baggage beneath them to sink a ship. This man is rounder of face, skin a healthy pink, still lean and angular, but not as skeletal. Percival snorts.

 "Don't try to butter me up, Pickery. What do you want?"

Short and to the point is how she likes Percival, usually, but something about the way he says her name stings. Pickery sighs, tucking her hands in her pockets. They're starting to grow numb with cold.

"My I come in?"

* * *

_"You're leaving?! You can't do that!"_

_This is a conversation Seraphina is not meant to overhear. She's paused just outside Graves (soon to be empty) office, his resignation in hand, fully intent on at least arguing with him. She knows it will be fruitless, but she has to try._

_She hears Graves sigh on the other side of the door, can imagine him scrubbing at his forehead the way he does when he's frustrated._

_"Can't I?" His voice sounds so very far away.  
"To Ireland?"_

_Goldstein's voice has taken on a frantic edge. She sounds like she's on the verge of tears. The mention of Ireland is like a kick in the gut, knocking Seraphina's breath away._

_  
"There's nothing left for me here, Tina. I need to get away from all this. Please don't argue with me on this, you won't change my mind."_

_  
Goldstein does muffle a sob. Graves sighs again, and the sound is followed by the scrape of fabric. Pickery imagines he's holding her. He always did have some strange soft spot for the girl._

_"Y-you'll visit, right?" Goldstein asks after a moment, "Please say you will?"_

_There's a soft chuckle._

_"Or you could come visit me. Bring that British beau of yours. I'm sure his creatures would enjoy a good romp."_

_Goldstein giggles. Giggles. Graves laughs with her and something in Pickery snaps. She turns on one heel, stalking away without a word to anyone._

* * *

The inside of the estate house is... quaint. Adorable, quite frankly, but Seraphina would never admit it out loud.

It's homey, reminds her of Ma's house, back in Georgia. There's something about this place, furnished in old wood and soft carpet and with little things here and there that settles in Pickery's gut and makes her feel warm. Graves takes her coat without a word, flicking his hand and sending it to the coat rack.

"Tea? Coffee?"

Graves is disappearing down the hall while he asks her this, his voice swallowed up by the walls. Seraphina follows.

"Coffee would be lovely, thank you."  
Percival hums.

The beans grind themselves in midair, hot water soon pouring into a percolator. Moments later, they have fresh coffee. A carafe of milk and some sugar appears when Graves snaps his fingers.

Seraphina adds a dash of both to her drink, but Graves takes his straight, leaning back against the counter. He's eyeing her, waiting, biding his time. It's a look she's seen before, directed at her, his staff and many a criminal. The familiarity of the expression doesn't make Pickery feel any better.

The silence stretches for a minute, for two, heading towards five. Graves isn't going to break it, then.

"Fontaine's dead," Seraphina finally admits.

Graves' expression doesn't waiver. When he speaks his voice is calm.

"So I heard. It made headlines here too."

She winces. It _was_ a big deal - the Director of Magical Law Enforcement killed in the line of duty, fighting Grindelwald's followers. There'd been a state funeral and everything - full honours, Pickery made a speech. Huge headache.

"The position is open," Pickery says carefully, sipping at her coffee.

It's stronger than she normally likes it, but that's Graves for you. For years, Pickery swears he functioned solely on caffeine and spite. Graves snorts again, setting his cup down on the counter with a clink.

"You want me back." It's not a question, Seraphina nods anyways.

"You're the best Director we've ever had, Perce. The department's a mess. Fontaine was good but he wasn't you."

The _we need you_ goes unspoken, but it strikes home all the same. Graves turns like a sudden thunderstorm, the calm melting away instantly to reveal electric fury. Coffee-dark eyes flash dangerously.

"They didn't need me six months ago," he snarls, lips pulling back over his white teeth, "They were quite convinced I was one of Grindelwald's goons. What makes you think they've changed their minds? And besides, what makes you think I want to go back to _that_?"

There's accusation in his tone and Seraphina bristles, even if she doesn't mean to. He's always had that effect, even in Ilvermorny; prickly Percy Graves could fray fiery Seraphina Pickery's nerves like no other.

"Please, Percival, give it-"  
He cuts her off with a wave of his hand,

"Some thought? To what exactly? To the stares and the whispers and the accusations? To the fact that to this day I am still missing two weeks of my life? To the fact that I gave MACUSA twenty years of my career and you turned your backs on me?"

Percival is yelling at this point, his voice growing high and strained. Magic flares about him like electricity, crackling. Those dark eyes are wild with power.

He's magnificent. He's terrifying.

Whatever magic there is in this old house seems to sense his pain, for the thing groans and shifts when he thunders. The lights flicker. Seraphina can't find her voice to argue with him, too stunned by his outburst, too shocked by the house's response.

Percival inhales deeply through his nose, nostrils flaring. Then, he deflates, sinking back against the solid weight of the counter.

"No." He says, very quietly, "No I won't come back. MACUSA can find someone else to blame for their mistakes."

He takes another sip of his coffee, hands shaking. The air around him settles a little, but it still thrums with an uneasy restlessness that sets Seraphina's teeth on edge.

"Very well," she finds herself whispering, something like defeat settling in her bones. "I'll thank you for your hospitality, Percival."

She stands, sets her cup down and offers her hand. Percival takes it without a word, his fingers as work worn and calloused as she remembers.

"I'll be leaving now."

When she looks at him, there's sadness in his eyes. It's like he doesn't want to see her go, but doesn't want her to stay, either.

Years later, Seraphina won't remember what possess her in that moment. Some urge, some overwhelming need to comfort him has Pickery dragging Percival into her arms. She wraps herself about him, pressing close. Percival gasps, face in her collar.

"I'll miss you," she whispers, "And I'm sorry. I know it's too late, but I'm truly sorry. For everything."

Then Seraphina turns and departs, leaving Percival Graves standing in his kitchen, on the coast of Ireland, five thousand miles from home.

* * *

_Graves is glaring at her from the doorstep of his brownstone. If she looks over his shoulder, Seraphina will find his belongings packed away, the place truly empty for the first time since his aunt bought it forty years ago.  
_

_"I can't convince you to stay?"_

_Her tone is careful, measured, professional. But there's an undercurrent of desperation because Percival is (was?) her friend and she doesn't want to see him leave._

_"No," Graves snaps in the way he does when he's running on sleep deprivation and coffee. "I'm done here, Pickery."_

_That sense of hopelessness Graves once associated with his Granny's death clunks to the bottom of Seraphina's stomach._

_It's bitter, like Percival's coffee, like defeat, like the minute she realized Ma wasn't going to get better all those years ago._

_Seraphina blinks back sudden tears, checks her flawless facade and steels herself. If she can't get him to stay, no one will. There's no use in wasting either of their time._

_"Very well."_

_She turns and leaves without saying anything more. Seraphina walks away, out of Graves' life. She doesn't apologize and she doesn't say goodbye._

**Author's Note:**

> BONUS SCENE:
> 
> Three months pass. The Major Investigations Department is working through a trafficking case; illegally charmed weapons coming out Chicago and Miami and other major cities. 
> 
> They've lost two Aurors in the past six weeks, a Senior to a hexed Tommy Gun, and a Junior to a stupid stunt.
> 
> The crisis clock is sitting at a three.
> 
> Pickery herself is handing out assignment orders when the door to the bullpen swings open. A hush like no other descends over the room, like the calm following a particularly violent storm.
> 
> Seraphina glances up from her clipboard, irritation flickering to life in her belly. It makes it's way up her throat but dies on her tongue. 
> 
> Percival Graves is standing there, in the doorway. He offers them all a little fond, if half-bitter smile.
> 
> "I hear there's still an opening for the position of Director," he says, "I'd imagine it would be useful to have one right now."  
> \---  
> And there you have it! I'm probably going to leave this universe lay, but we shall see.  
> Thank you to all those who commented and gave kudos on Looking for Lost Time, you're the inspiration behind this one!


End file.
